The Protege: Part I Page 3

  *****

  On Thursday, Pete was bartending by himself. He had kept a wary eye on the pool tables across the room and also on different persons playing it. One man, short in statue and with thinning, dark black hair, was already at the center table. He'd been there for about a half hour, shooting various pool balls into the table pockets. While musing from across the room, Pete began to count the number of shots that he made without missing and after a count of fourteen he stopped and surmised that he was Big Milwaukee's opponent. The man seemed no underdog.

  Pete's analysis was soon stopped by the calling of an angry patrons voice. The big man had not arrived yet and he couldn't afford to be flippant with the customers just yet.

  Instead of serving his drinks with an amiable smirk, he now served them with a smile. So he apologized and then hurriedly went to fix up the drink. Likewise, his tips were not coming in abundantly as the usual rut. But now, then again, Pete could care less about his tips and (as quiet as kept) about his customers. His mind, in general, focused on incoming calls from the phone.

  Minutes after noon, Big Milwaukee himself scrambled in from the entrance while holding a black, tapered case containing a pool stick, looking tired, feeble, but still hurried.

  Right away, before being approached by a few praising patrons, the big man noticed Pete standing behind the bar, who then, right away, began accommodating him with a drink. Soon, it was prepared, and Pete then excused himself from the customers aligned against the edge of the bar. He quickly crossed the room over to the illuminated pool area in time to see the big man and the short, pool shark shaking hands.

  Yes, Pete thought of himself, his inclination had been correct. The man was Big Milwaukee's opponent. He continued to watch as the two men bantered in conversation and then as Big Milwaukee finally turned around in cognition.

  The big man was pulpy, flat and grinning, but the eyes behind the look, the baby blue eyes, smeared with saline solution, pink around the lids, said that he was sick-sicker then he had been the night before. Numb from taking pain-killers and cringing quietly from an encroachment of cancerous pain. Perhaps, thought Pete, he was drunk.

  Pete smiled and then handed over the drink.

  “Hello Milwaukee.”

  The big man smiled and then accepted the drink.

  “Thanks. Keep it coming, one every five minutes.”

  “Whatever you say,” Pete responded apprehensively. He then hurriedly left back to the bar where he knew calls for tarried orders would be awaiting for him. They were, and like the amateur Pete was, he slowly began the configuration of mixing drinks. Soon, the drinks were served and the rooms ambiance veered from that of thirst onto the main event taking place across the room.

  Another game. Another opponent.

  Tense moments, for one of the two players were approaching and the entire spectacle was being absorbed by the leering patrons. The boisterousness inside the bar was soon replaced by chattering, which soon was replaced by hushes and then near silence.

  Perhaps, it was the big mans opponent, who approached the rear of the table to rack up the balls with an ever growing confidence. Such a confidence displayed in 'Randys Bar' while playing Big Milwaukee in front of gaping spectators was unheard of. The big man flinched as he watched from the front of the table. He looked paler then ever, wanly, as he opened up his case and brought out his pool stick. A wave of excitement loomed over the entire bar.

  After the rack was completed, Big Milwaukee stepped closer to the pool table and pinpointed his pool stick directly at the triangular arrangement of balls. He smiled and then broke up the balls with a jerking hit.

  Three balls fell into pockets. His shot. He overlooked an easy six ball shot in the side pocket and focused on a two-ball shot along the end rail of the table. He leered forward and without an eye-blink, knocked the ball straight into the corner pocket. The cue ball spun wildly, hitting his opponents five ball and 'scratching' down into the side pocket.

  The big man grimaced. It was an unfortunate shot, unprofessional and completely out of his character. He shuffled down to the end of the table to retrieve the fallen cue ball from the return and then rolled it down to his opponent who had moved up to the front of the table. He was suppressing his smile but, the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. He, like everyone else in the room was beginning to observe that the big man was unlike himself. He looked tired. Befuddled. His eyes wandered and he seemed to be giving more attention to his drink then to the pool table itself----